Bird of the Week

Trumpeter swans at the Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge

I stopped at the Sherburn Wildlife Refuge on my way north to a writer's retreat. If you've ever heard the call of a trumpeter swan, you'll know how they got their name. Galloping horse birds would also be good if you were to name them for the beating of their wings on the water as they take flight. They weigh 25 pounds or so--the heaviest bird in North America, and their getaway is noisy and lumbering.

Some fun facts from allaboutbirds.org:

• Starting in the 1600s, market hunters and feather collectors had decimated Trumpeter Swans populations by the late 1800s. Swan feathers adorned fashionable hats, women used swan skins as powder puffs, and the birds’ long flight feathers were coveted for writing quills. Aggressive conservation helped the species recover by the early 2000s.
• Trumpeter Swans form pair bonds when they are three or four years old. The pair stays together throughout the year, moving together in migratory populations. Trumpeters are assumed to mate for life, but some individuals do switch mates over their lifetimes. Some males that lost their mates did not mate again.
• Trumpeter Swans take an unusual approach to incubation: they warm the eggs by covering them with their webbed feet.

Saturday Morning Beach Report

Big waves. Strong light. Sand bermed up, water pooling into salty lakes, debris etching the sand.

There were many birds taking advantage of the pools of water, and on the dry sand there were turkey vultures. Maybe they were displaced by the fires. Maybe they heard the crash of the waves and knew there would be carnage for them to feast on. Turkey vultures do show up on the beach from time to time--but they're not a regular feature.

Later this afternoon at home, I sat in my bedroom, reading, and the door to the hall was open.  I looked up and caught a beam of light sitting in the chair. The days are short, but the light is dramatic this time of year--both inside and out.

Bird of the Day: Laughing Gull

Laughing Gull

After 5 years of walking on the beach almost daily, I've never seen this bird until today.

Laugh and the world laughs with you. Unless you're this bird who was flying solo as far as I could tell.

Whimbrels on Hollywood Beach

Pelicans

 I love their even spacing.

A real photographer could do so much better, but I'm okay with that.

Saturday Beach Report

 Inventory:

Dark sky, blue sky
parade of sailboats

Terns crying overhead
a flock of whimbrels at water's edge
a lone sea lion swimming close to shore

Beachgoers of all varieties
swimmers, fisherman, castle builders, loungers in beach chairs staring out to the horizon,
a man on horseback looking like a vacation ad in a magazine

And a message found on the sand.

Welcome to Margaritaville

Holiday weekend population at my place is 3. Apparently other households are having guests over too. Yesterday at the beach, I must have seen a dozen people. And with fallout from the demoic acid continuing, there were a dozen dead birds, two dead sea lions, and one sea lion cordoned off waiting for rescue.

It's still paradise.
But for the dead, not so much.

And we have bars in paradise. I love bars.

I especially love bars with music. The night before last we went to see one of my favorite musicians at a beach neighborhood bar so tiny it appears to have been built in someone's garage. A guy we  dubbed "the tornado" blew in about half-way through our evening. He entered as if he was wearing those shoes with retractable wheels you see adolescents gliding around in. He danced his way to the dance floor after a quick word with the bartender. The next thing you know, everyone in the bar had a fresh drink. The Tornado danced. The Tornado knuckle-bumped quite a few of us. And then he blew out again.

This morning he was at the farmer's market looking fresh as a daisy.

So I'm back, enjoying life in Margaritaville.

But not that long ago I was here:

Always aware of the canyons in my heart.
How are you?

State of the State of Margaritaville

Evening walk last week.

I'm alive and I live in paradise.

For more than a year I've been wrestling.
Swollen joints.(They went away; yesterday the swollen knees and ankles came back) A hoarse voice.
Grief.
Musing over  Dan's central tenet. You're doing the best that you can. Really, you did the best that you could at the time. Really really, you did the best that you could at the time with what you knew at the time.
Really?

I am alive and I live in paradise.

My voice is unreliable. Is that the same as an unreliable narrator?

Why am I not working on a writing project right now?

Some days I can barely make myself understood. In places that I go regularly, people know to lean closer. Other days I clear my throat a million times. The phlegm lady.

Yes, I've been to doctors.
Hooray, I'll be on Medicare in November.

The lungs are the seat of grief, the acupuncturist says. Okay.

The Integrated Medicine doc says no dairy and gluten. Sometimes I cheat on the dairy.

What do you do with grief when you're grieving over a dead person while taking care of a dying person?
Wow, wasn't that like, a long time ago?

No.
I am alive and I live in paradise.

Paradise itself is struggling.

Starting in the lower right foreground, notice the white bumps, and follow them into the distance. These are the breasts of western grebes, poisoned by domoic acid. The Pacific loons, cormorants, and pelicans are darker and cannot be distinguished in the photograph.

The beach, early morning, after the winds have subsided.

"Stay close to anything that makes you glad you are alive." Hafiz

 One of my yoga teachers ended a recent class with the quote above. My list is long, and by no means fully described by the photos below. A decade ago things did not feel so joyful in my personal life.

Pure white doves in flight

A beach full of birds and treasures

The roses in my own front yard

Trying to grow a lemon tree

Looking at art
This is from the exhibit, Rotari's Muses, at the Norton Simon

A visit from faraway friends

A sweet dessert from a beloved friend

Resist

I've been feeding finches, black-crowned sparrows, and a pair of ring-necked doves from one of those suction-cup bird feeders since my mom moved in with me the summer of 2012. I put up hummingbird feeders too, and it took a bit of finagling to find a spot where the possums couldn't tip them up like  growlers of beer, but ultimately we had a fine success.

A week or so ago (around the time of the Inauguration) I saw a squirrel in the street in front of my house. There are no squirrels in this neighborhood--or at least I hadn't seen any in the almost 5 years that I've lived here. You could be mugged by an army of rabbits while out walking around here at night, or hissed at by a possum, but there were absolutely no squirrels.

Yesterday and today, I saw this:

I've chased him off twice.

And I've moved the feeder higher, so maybe the Evil Bannon (the squirrel's name) won't be able to leap from the window ledge into the feeder. It remains to be seen if he will be able to leap from the wall into the feeder. Maybe that's a reason not to have a wall. But then my neighbor might come over, right?

I will resist.

And speaking of that, Southern California friends, will I see you in L.A. Sunday?https://www.facebook.com/events/1371706059569756/

If you're going to be there, let me know.

One Good Thing

California is banning single-use plastic bags. THIS is from the L.A. Times

Wednesday Morning Beach Report: Chaos and how peace escaped.

Pelicans. They usually fly in formation, but it was chaos out there this morning.

And the pure white dove of peace escaped capture by my camera.

Maybe you've got her. Congrats. Enjoy. Send her back my way when you're bored, okay?

Tuesday Morning Beach/Crime Report

Long Billed Curlew in the foam

The bird watching has been wonderful these last few mornings. Curlews, willets, godwits, whimbrels, plovers, and pelicans. I'm not a photographer with a real camera, but I still can't resist.

Pelican taking off after riding the waves

I felt a bit like I like was sticking my long beak into someone's business this morning when I saw a cosmetics bag in the street just a few doors from home. There was a prescription bottle lying there with the mascara and lip gloss and such, so I knew it couldn't be trash. I wasn't sure whether to call the police or maybe just try to find the person whose name was on the prescription bottle. I Googled and bingo. (She's a professional with an office locally.) She thanked me and told me her car had been broken into this morning and that she'd be right over to pick it up. That seemed a bit naive, but I said sure, hoping I wasn't being naive about telling a complete stranger to come over to my house. 

Wisely, she had second thoughts and called the police officer who was already on the case. He came over and got the bag and asked me a few questions. According to his timeline, I picked up the bag just moments after it had been tossed. She's not the only person I know whose car has been broken into lately in broad daylight, so local readers, take note.

The officer wanted my contact info, so I gave him my card which has the cover of my book on the front. What's this? he asked. I explained. We had the so you're a writer conversation, but he was really interested in the book. The story. What? You're reunited with your son?! How's your relationship? What about his adoptive parents? Oh my god, that's amazing. 

Seems like he was either adopted himself or maybe had an adopted child or two. I wanted to ask, but didn't. I did enough minding of someone else's business today. But if you're adopted, or have adopted children, or an adopted sibling, or if you're a birthmother or know anyone who is, you might like to read MY BOOK.

And if you do, thank you from the bottom of my heart. It's a story for everyone and anyone, really. But I love it when it hits someone close to home.

My largest heart rock to date--but too big to carry home.

Friday Morning Beach Report

Today's Ocean

Green and cross-hatched with waves, frothy fireworks explode over the breakwater.

Gulls fly drunk while I search for treasure.

I pocket beach glass and covet pieces of driftwood too heavy to carry.

I cheat the great Pacific garage patch out of two toy shovels, one blue and one green, matching the clothes I'm wearing.

I might look ridiculous. 

Trudging into the wind, I think:

It's the walk itself that is the treasure.

And this very breath, and the next one

and the next.

Wednesday Morning Beach Report

Ocean's foamy fingers
sift powdered sugar sand while

a pair of lovers
rest under a sky marked with kisses.

Bird of the Day: Forster's Tern

The photo is not the best, but that's the new guy there on the left.

I was obsessed with the shore birds when I moved here over three years ago. I couldn't ID a single one except for the brown pelican. I still can't really tell all the gulls apart, but there are a dozen birds I do recognize. Because I walk the same beach over and over again, I haven't seen much new in the world of birds--until today. I believe the smaller bird on the left is a forster's tern.The larger terns on the right are elegant terns.  I love them all.

And how about tonight's sunset?

Seriously.

Beach Report

Waves crashing over the breakwater at Channel Islands Harbor yesterday

The waves have been immense the last couple of days, the tide so high that yesterday trucks came and pulled the lifeguard stations back from the water several feet. Today there were pools of water as far back as the dunes as a result of the high tides.

Willets and snowy plovers must have felt like they had swank resorts with their own private islands.  I can hear the waves crashing from my driveway which is just over a mile away from the beach. At the risk of redundancy, I'll say again that I love this place. It is paradise.

This picture does not do justice to the enormity of the waves

I don't always know what to do these days without my mother here. I'm greatly relieved that she's in Iowa, yet I'm uneasy sometimes that she's so far away. While making phone inquiries as to the cost of transporting someone's remains to a university deeded body program, it could be helpful to look across the room and see that person eating cookies and yogurt.

I would like to say that I've been able to turn my attention to writing. Instead I find myself googling things like "how to help a Syrian family," "interfaith organizations," "how to support religious freedom." Like the ocean, the world is in an uproar. Like most people I don't really know what to do about it personally. What are you doing, dear reader?

Most likely my volunteer gig after the first of the year will involve sea lions or the Channel Islands. But what I should probably be doing is sitting in the hallway at a social services office in Iowa, weeping and gnashing my teeth until I get my mom on Medicaid--and perhaps while ensconced there, stepping up on a soapbox to rail against Donald Trump and Ted Cruz. The bill for the third month of nursing home care has arrived and I've made my third attempt at bureaucratic hoop jumping. Sometimes I think I have too much faith in everything.

I've been wondering too if my life will soon feel settled. The last seven years have held a lot of turmoil. Divorce, death, and drama have been recurring themes here in Margaritaville. I do believe the winds of change are blowing. I have faith in that. Really I do.

Not really feeling festive just yet, but here's a Christmas wreath